A Pack of Wolves
by Salamon2
Summary: A continuation of So Soars the Young Falcon. House Stark, like all the other houses in Westeros is not the same after Robert's Rebellion. The years pass and the pack of wolves grow and their relationships change and evolve-some for good and others for ill-setting the foundations for Westeros' future to come. Note: this story spans the years 283 - 292.
1. Oswell I

**OSWELL**

He arrived in Pentos in as little as a fortnight from his departure thanks to steady winds and calm waves. He came with only a poor set of armor, his own white helmet with a black bat forged onto it, a spare set of clothes and the remains of his personal belongings that he could fit into his trunk.

Pentos itself was a port city protected by sea by the Bay of Pentos and protected by land by the tall wall which surrounded it. Stretching beyond it in the distance Oswell could make out what looked to be the beginnings of a great grassy plain, with a series of foothills near the city itself, forming a rough natural border to the east. Many of the buildings were made of sun-dried bricks, while stone and marble were reserved for the luxurious manses and places of the forty families and magistars. The city, though being more populous than King's Landing somehow managed to avoid the utter stench of the nearest Westerosi equivalent that Oswell had experienced in his life.

Upon arriving he was interviewed by the customs officer who rifled through his trunk and spoke with a broken and heavily accented common tongue. After his belongings were searched he was permitted to enter the city, and Oswell set out for the address that Prince Oberyn had suggested he go to first to establish a relationship with the one contact he did have in the city. Given the Dornish prince's reputation he should have been less surprised when he found himself near the end of a dead ended alleyway which was home to several of the more exclusive brothels. The one which concerned him, was the one with an image of a woman standing with one foot on land and the other in water painted onto its front. The woman in the painting was wearing nothing at all while holding a goblet in each hand as a kind of offering, surrounded by an indiscriminate night sky upon which shimmering stars seemed to pop forth to frame the woman. Though it was faded, Oswell could tell that the painter had been quite skilled and attached to their work, obviously having taken special attention to minor details which became more noticeable the longer you stared at it. The name of the business was likewise painted onto the wall of the building: Qēlosozi Ābra, or Starry Woman he loosely translated.

He heard a woman with dyed hair of violet shout to him from one of the windows in their bastardized Valyrian. Recalling what he could of his old maester teaching him and his elder brother Edmyre High Valyrian he could just make out that she japed with him about whether or not he wanted to do more than just look. He replied with what little High Valyrian he could muster in his mind to remember.

He spoke haltingly, but well enough, he thought, saying, "Rytsas… ābra brōzat Andella… undessun daor."

"Sparos iepagon Andella?" asked the woman.

"Azantys Vesterozi," he answered.

The woman answered with a smirk. Fearing he could carry the conversation no further he asked, "Quptenkos Ēngoso ẏdrassis?"

"Aye, when I must. Now why is a sellsword from the sunset kingdoms visiting my little brothel?" asked the woman, who seemed to identify herself as the bawd.

"I have a letter from a friend of yours."

"I fear you must have come to the the wrong brothel, for I have no friends in the sunset kingdoms," began the woman as she was about to close her shutters.

"He said to tell you that the fangs have come out."

At this the woman paused, before asking, "Wait there."

A few minutes later the woman opened the door and beckoned he enter. She immediately slammed the door shut behind him and motioned for him to leave his trunk by the door and led him through a series of rooms filled with women lounging about, entertaining men or themselves. They at last came to a room which was obviously her own, and she closed the door, locked it and motioned for him to take a seat.

"Your name?" asked Andella.

"Oswell Whent," answered Oswell, feeling no need to disguise his identity with his supposed contact.

Andella was silent for a long moment, pouring two glasses of wine and then offering one to him. He politely refused and she poured his glass back into the flagon, took a seat herself and began to sip at her wine as she spoke, "It has been some time since I heard of the Red Viper. He last came here when he was but…six and ten, I believe he said. He stayed here a week and then set sail to Volantis. Now you come to me saying that he is in trouble… tell me, why should I care whether or not he needs my help?"

Everything was going extremely quickly for Oswell, typically he liked to sit in the shadows and observe—that was how he truly could be of use—but this forthrightly speaking, this was not his forte.

"You obviously care a great deal considering you've brought me this far into your brothel at the mere mention of him…" and then an idea came to him, "did he perhaps steal your heart?" asked Oswell.

"A heart is a luxury no whore can afford. He did not take anything from me, Ser, instead he left something…" muttered the woman.

"A daughter?" asked Oswell, knowing that the Red Viper was well known for only having daughters.

"Is that why you've truly come, to collect my son?" asked Andella with all the ferocity of a Stark she-wolf.

"Truthfully I care not whether the Red Viper has four or a million bastards. I was sent by him to… investigate certain spheres of Pentos. He told me to speak with you before doing so, saying that this letter would explain anything I might fail to," and with that said, Oswell pulled out the sealed letter for her to read. She looked it over laughing at the sigil pressed into the wax of an orange speared sun, and she then opened it and read it. As she did she paled at its contents.

"Madam—" began Oswell.

"What he asks is… dangerous. I cannot assist you myself with such a task. It is too great for me to handle… but I might be able to point you in the appropriate direction…" mentioned Andella, rising and beginning to pace worriedly.

"Mayhaps we could discuss this another time? I must be on my way if I'm to find lodgings for the night…" suggested Oswell as he noticed the sunset through her open window.

"Aye, that sounds reasonable. Wait a moment," said Andella and she then walked over to the window which overlooked the back alley behind the building and called out to someone outside in a fast stream of words of the Pentoshi bastard Valaryian that Oswell could not make out.

A few moments later a young boy climbed through the window and Oswell stared at him. The boy, like his mother, had dyed his hair violet, but beyond that Oswell felt safe in saying that Prince Oberyn was indeed the father—the only parts of his mother in the boy seemed to be his lighter complexion than that of the Prince's and his mother's pale green eyes.

Andella spoke slowly in the common tongue, and said, "Obi, this man is in need of lodgings for this evening at an inn… take him to the Eight Swords."

The boy apparently understood the common tongue but seemed apprehensive to answer in it, simply nodding to acknowledge he understood her. Oswell then rose and took his leave of Andella, who dismissed him with a wave of her hand as she returned her attention to the letter he had brought her.

The Eight Swords Inn was a small ramshackle little place not too far from the Starry Woman. The illiterate sign was of eight swords bent and reforged into a wreath. It was on a larger and wider street, but it felt no less secluded with the way streets twisted and wound through the city. It was outside of the inn that the boy nodded his head toward the building and then hurried off into the milling crowd, vanishing as he did so.

The inn was owned by an old man called Foerys and his young daughter, Lysenia. Lysenia was a girl on the cusp of maidenhood, having long flowing silver blonde hair and eyes a dark mix of green and blue like the sea. She was the one in charge of receiving guests, running off to find her father when Oswell managed to pull out a bag of coin that the Prince had provided which "officially" came from him having sold most of his possessions before arriving in the Free Cities.

Foerys was quite an old man, who needed a cane to get around, though clearly he tried to inhabit any room he walked into with his presence. After haggling a decent weekly rate which could be charged, Oswell grabbed his trunk and climbed the stairs to the second floor and his room. It was a small cramped place with not much more than a straw mattress to sleep on, but it would have to do, for now.

After having settled in, Oswell left to purchase food before the street vendors closed up completely and after purchasing a loaf of bread and a honey apple, Oswell returned to his room to discover that in his absence someone else had entered his darkened room as he was shocked by the presence of a hooded figure in the room, who made his presence known by saying, upon the closing of the door, "Hello, Oswell…"


	2. Catelyn I

**CATELYN**

No matter how often she visited the godswood, or asked her goodsister about the old gods, no easy answers came. There only remained that one vision forever playing in the back of her mind, of the children laughing, climbing a nearby tree, and happy. Not just her son, but also her husband's wards and even his bastard. And to have seen that vision before she had known of the arrival of the two Westerling children, made her know it was not just her imaginations. No, it had been a sign from the old gods—but what it meant… of that she would have to puzzle out. The only answer she did get from her goodsister was that there were very few rules to the old gods. So whatever their reason, the old gods had answered her prayers with a promise of her son's happiness, and this she could take some solace in. And oddly enough she found that comforting. Catelyn could neither understand nor ignore the power of the old gods, but to have that one reassurance made all the difference. And that, she told herself was the reason now she made a daily vigil to the heart tree—which after a month of staring into its face no longer seemed so strange or alien. It watched with a weary expression of having seen much before it, and in a way she thought it could listen to her troubles in addition to providing some solace.

All the new gods had given her was judgment and punishment, which by them she did deserve. It was wrong to think so ill of an innocent child as to want him dead… but what else could she think of for her husband's bastard beside that she had wished him gone? Gone so that the servant girls who laughed to themselves about "Lord Stark's attentions" would go away, that the pitying looks she received from others would go away, that the probing looks she received from her goodsister would go away. In contrast though, what the old gods gave her was the promise of a better future—but how to achieve that future? Clearly Jon Snow would remain part of her son's life, and oddly enough be happy about it. How best to achieve that future though? She then recalled something her husband had said to her before leaving King's Landing:

_Like the wolf of our sigil, we see ourselves as a pack, and the pack is strongest when together and raised as a pack. We've had no troubles with bastards as a result..._

And then she realized what might be the meaning behind the vision. What she had seen was not one child happily surrounded by many as she had first thought, but instead was many children happy together as a group…a pack. A wolf's family…

_But Robb is different he's the heir to Winterfell._

He may be different, but a pack was still a family…

_Family, Duty, Honor…_

Oh how her father's words now mocked her. True, Jon Snow was not of her blood as Robb was, but he and Robb shared blood… they were family. How could she ever raise him to honor her family's words and keep him from his half-brother? How could she uphold the honor of the Tullys—let alone that of the Starks to raise him to be a hypocrite?

A Stark's "pack" it seemed though to encompass something more than just blood—kith as well as kin, if her husbands' taking in of wards was any indication. And it also seemed to be her son's as well. In the time she had spent distraught over her ill-made choices, the servants had arranged the nursery, making use of what few cribs they had by keeping the three infant boys together, so that Jeyne Westerling, being the only lady of the nursery, could have her own crib. It was the sensible thing to do, Catelyn had to admit, and the more time she spent in the nursery, the less she could deny it—the three infant boys adored one another. Early on after her recovery she had tried to separate Jon, Den, and Robb—placing the former two into makeshift crates with blanket and straw padding for cribs, but each time she was not allowed to leave the room before one of the three would begin to wail, setting off the other two in a chorus of cries, which would then wake sweet little Jeyne, and cause her to return Jon, Den, and Robb back into the large crib which they were determined to share. One thing Catelyn was quite sure of—the three already considered themselves brothers, no matter the truth of their blood. For better or ill, they were inseparable now and heartily refused to be divided. And on some level—which she kept hidden even from herself—she thought it rather sweet in an innocent childish way.

_And yet one day, the world will divide you like it has my family. There are marriages to be had, battles to fight, and fortunes to be won—not all of which will be had within these walls. Enjoy this while you can…_

Catelyn had Raynald moved into a side chamber off of the nursery shortly after his arrival, and he seemed to appreciate it—especially when the four infants began crying. One time she had noticed Raynald had come rushing to see what was wrong with his sister Jeyne but the more frequently he found either herself or Old Nan in the nursery the less frequently he came at her wail.

When Eddard returned to Winterfell, he came looking far different from the man who had left King's Landing for the Westerlands. He looked haggered from weeks upon the road, and the child, the squid boy, Theon Greyjoy, clearly had not helped matters much. Thankfully though, Theon was about as close to the age of reason as Raynald Westerling was. Having had little warning beyond a raven sent from Seaguard, Cat had only just had time to arrange for a similar small chamber off of the nursery for the little lordling of the Iron Islands. From that same letter she knew though that this child was not of her husband's choosing, with the King having commanded that they raise him along side the young Lord Westerling and their son in hope that good relations may be fostered to ensure peace between them all in the future.

Her husband's welcoming of her seemed slightly cool and distant, in comparison to the brotherly hug he had given Benjen, and the slight smile he'd given her goodsister. But he had been nothing if not respectful, despite being obviously too tired to truly want to go through proper ceremony. He asked after her health, and how she found Winterfell. She equally gave polite responses to his questions, saying that since the delivery of their son she was recovering well, and that she had yet to see all of Winterfell to know her full mind of it. He then had asked if she might take him to the nursery so he might see his sons. The request was heart warming to some degree and a cold blast of a winter wind as well as it wasn't just their son he wanted to see, but Jon Snow as well. After leading him to the nursery, she lingered in the doorway, watching as Eddard picked up each of his sons and held them with such a profound sense of love and devotion that Catelyn wished that some kind of similar affection could be found in their own relations. She left the nursery with silent tears flooding her eyes, and beginning to stream down her cheeks.

With Eddard's siblings present, Catelyn found that they both could find easy excuses not to speak with one another. She was much more at ease sharing a small jape with Lyanna or speaking over household ledgers and expenses with Benjen. So for the first few days she let these be her excuses to avoid speaking with Eddard, half knowing that the true reason, a fear beyond all else, came from not knowing if she could speak to him about Jon Snow without confessing her horrible near-crime to him…

It was near a sennight when her goodsister came to her asking if she could help her find one of her missing riding boots that she had lost somewhere in the castle. Apparently having searched through all of her chambers already, they retraced her steps from when she had known to have last had them, eventually coming to the solar, where quite suddenly Catelyn found herself pushed inside and the door locked behind her. Eddard sat quietly in the chair she was used to seeing Benjen sit in, as he looked over some letters.

He looked up and grey eyes met blue—each unwilling to make the first move, to say the first thing, until she had had enough and said, rather formerly, "My lord…"

After a moment of silence, he said, "Benjen said there were a few letters here for me to read, and if I'm not mistaken I saw Lyanna push you in here before locking the door behind you. It seems then my brother and sister will not let us out until we speak with each other."

"Aye, it would seem so," she agreed. She made no movement to sit, but felt awkward just standing here near the threshold of a locked door.

A long moment of silence passed before Eddard gave up all pretenses of reading the letters on the desk and asking, rather softly so that she nearly missed hearing him say, "Do you hate me?"

Without thinking, she responded, "No… hate would require that I know you better…" Again there was silence, but this time she broke it, saying, "Besides, we have a son, and for his sake, I would not hate you."

He began, "Then our wards—"

"Are perfectly fine. It was a good thing of you to take them in as you did—even the Greyjoy boy. Fostering the lordlings will help build up relations that will give our family connections throughout the realm. And beyond that it shows… it shows that though you may be a bloody wolf, you have a kind heart. I thought so at the first when you mentioned taking in Den."

With some obvious annoyance, he answered, "I am not a bloody wolf…"

She countered, "Several bloody fields of battle, and several decimated families would disagree with you on that account—the Kingswood still reeked of the rank odor of death when I left the capital."

"And is that why you have been hesitant to speak with me?" asked Eddard, his eyes seeming to melt with a flicker of emotion before returning to the solid icy grey walls they usually were.

"Truthfully, we've both been hesitant with one another. You could have just as easily come to my own chambers and requested that we speak," answered Catelyn.

He seemed impassive at the suggestion, eventually asking, "It's about Jon then, isn't it?"

"Aye, to some degree it is," she answered honestly after swallowing. Now came the hard part. She took a deep breath and thought carefully of how to continue before doing so, "I can understand why you would have him here. Lyanna has explained much about Bran the Daughterless, Lonny Snow, Brandon Snow, and all other Snows of the past that have had Winterfell as their home. And yet, while I can understand it… that still does not change how I feel. I know it is irrational, that his existence is of no offense to myself or our vows since he came from before either of us were promised to the other, but on some level I can't seem to let how I feel go completely—I want him gone… and yet, I know he must stay. I try... I still try… and I hope that with time that I can feel differently, but at this crossroads… I will not be unkind to him—to that I swear by all the gods—but I know that I cannot look upon him as a mother does… mayhaps as an aunt, but no more can I promise now."

There she had gotten through it, all without ever once mentioning her near-crime. That would have to be a cross she would have to bear alone. Of that she knew perfectly well. As for Jon Snow's presence, he would have to be something she would have to accept, and so she did. After all, what other choice did she have in the matter with even the gods against her feelings.

They were silent again for a long while before she heard the door unlock, and her goodsister and goodbrother enter.

It was not until later that evening, when Old Nan was helping her to brush her hair out that she heard a knock on the door, which Old Nan answered. To her surprise, it was her husband. He dismissed Old Nan and took a chair and brought it near where she sat on the edge of her bed, so that he could look at her. Though she had on a nice thick shift to keep her warm, Catelyn almost felt as if she were completely naked.

"This afternoon you said you did not know me well enough to hate me—" he started.

"Forgive my blunt speech, my lord—" she began.

He interrupted her and said, "Ned, if it would not trouble you…"

That's right, he had said to call him Ned. Somehow in all the business of the children, the war, her sister's marriage, and Robb's birth she had nearly forgotten that he had asked her to do so.

"Ned…" she said in response, as if trying it out for the first time properly—it wasn't truly the first time, but in some ways it did feel like a first time.

"I would like to correct that. If it would not trouble you," he answered.

"Excuse me?" asked Catelyn.

He explained thoroughly, "We are man and wife. Whatever our past passions and deeds, they remain behind us, while we must move and look forward to what will come next. I would like to have someone standing beside me who knows me, rather than thinks of me as a stranger."

Tentatively she added, "I—I would like that as well… Ned…"


	3. Denys I

**DENYS**

Lysa was immediately brought to her chambers in the Red Keep—Grand Maester Gormon overseeing her care personally himself at the behest of Robert. For nearly three hours Denys was not permitted to enter into her chambers—being told that when it was safe to enter he would be the first one permitted inside. As such this left Denys very little to do at first beyond pacing in front of her door…and along with his gooduncle, asking both his ward and his young goodbrother what exactly had happened.

"He pushed me," answered the young Greyjoy girl seemingly without emotion.

"Is this true?" he asked his goodbrother, feeling more like a parent or an uncle than a brother to the boy of ten namedays.

_Seven help me, I am old enough to be his father—a young father, but nonetheless…_

"Aye, but only after she—"

"No excuses Edmure! She's a lady—no matter how she dresses—and a lord does not go around pushing ladies," scolded the Blackfish.

Denys felt like he should say more, that he should berate Edmure for bringing harm to Lysa—but to look upon the boy, who seemed to be half scared of what would happen himself, Denys could not find it within himself to say anything… his thoughts were too wrapped up with concern that Lysa and their child would not… no, he could not think that. He had already lost one wife and child… did the Seven now see fit to take yet another pair? How could the Seven-who-are-one be so cruel? What had he done to deserve the loss of Annalys and Jasper, of Lysa and his yet unborn child? What great sin had he committed without knowing? What could he do to keep it from happening again?

With these questions plaguing his mind, he left the two children to the Blackfish's care after that and returned to his vigil outside of Lysa's room, being joined soon after by his goodfather. They both remained in silence at first, but apparently this did not suit Hoster Tully, and to pass the time while they waited his goodfather talked, of all things about the newly appointed Kingsguard.

His goodfather nearly fumed as he spoke, saying, "Bonifer Hasty refused… refused to join the Kingsguard!"

"Why?" croaked Denys—not truly caring, but feeling that if Hoster was talking about this then he wouldn't turn the conversation to Lysa.

Hoster huffed before continuing, "He asked the King for the hand of the Queen Dowager in marriage."

Denys did not reply, the words seeming to glide over and off of him like water on a duck's back.

Hoster continued, ignoring that Denys had not answered, "The two have been in love ever since before she married Aerys. It took me a while to remember that. I mean, there had been rumors in my day of the Princess having a knightly admirer, but back then I hadn't given it too much thought—no one had—everyone was concerned about the unsettling news across the Narrow Sea."

"Unsettling news?" asked Denys, which were the only two words Denys had completely grasped in that torrent of speech.

His goodfather dismissively answered, "The Ninepenny Kings."

Suddenly his mind seemed to grasp what had been said, though it still felt disjointed to think.

"But I thought Rhaella and Aerys married well before that war?" If Denys recalled it rightly, he'd been but a quite young infant when that marriage, Summerhall, and the war had all taken place.

Hoster continued, "Rumors of the gathering forces started long before any war broke out. And while tales of a knightly romance surrounded the Princess back then, she easily enough put it aside to marry Aerys at her grandfather's command."

"Mayhaps she feels she has more of a choice now…" offered Denys.

"Aye, mayhaps…" admitted Hoster with a sigh.

Curiously he wondered, "Did the king grant his request?"

After a quiet moment, his goodfather responded, "He said he would be loathe to keep a man from his lady love."

Denys stared at his goodfather, caught between instant belief and sudden disbelief of what he had said.

"After I assured him that the Queen Dowager was likely too old to have any more children," admitted his goodfather with an exasperated sigh.

Denys nodded, that made sense. Though Robert had given his cloak of protection to his cousin and her family, Denys had yet to see him genuinely interact with them outside of displays of public ceremony. It had been something Denys had meant to speak with Robert about, but other events had distracted him from attending to his duty. He made note of needing to do so later.

Just then the door to his wife's sickroom opened. Immediately Denys' head snapped to the door just in time to see the Grand Maester slip out of the room and into the passageway. He looked between both him and his goodfather before sighing. That was not a good sign. Immediately his mind was brought back to all the questions about Lysa he had been dwelling on before his goodfather had distracted him.

Gormon looked between both of their expectant looks and sighed before saying, "Lady Arryn has lost a lot of blood my lords, far too much to be sure as to her survival…"

"No!" Denys said immediately without thinking.

_Not again, by all the Seven, not again!_

Gormon continued, giving Denys a pitying look as he did, seeming to desire to be anywhere saying anything else but this, "If she survives the night, then I would say she is likely to yet live. Or she could join her child at any moment. I have done all I can do… her fate is in the Seven's hands now…"

Denys could hear no more. He had to see Lysa. They may have lost their child, but he could not bear to lose a second wife. He had to do something, just sitting out here and doing nothing and talking about the Queen Dowager held no appeal to him anymore. He pushed past Gormon and entered her sick room. He stopped at the threshold, taking a short shallow gasp of air at the sight before him.

_Seven preserve me…_

The sickroom was small yet with its high vaulted ceiling and matching large windows that contained doors that led out to a balcony, felt much larger than it actually was. There was a bed, a hearth, a table, a few chairs, a chamberpot in the corner. Everything that could be needed was there. Although the hearth and several candles were lit, there seemed to be a dominance of darkness which hung about the room. Two maids who had assisted Gormon in his task hovered over the table cleaning something that Denys could not quite see, nor did he care to see.

Lysa was laid out in a bloody bed, dressed in a loose fitting shift that Denys could see clung to her body with perspiration. Her skin was pale, and shone like a marble statue in the candlelight. Had he not been staring at her to see her tiny shallow breaths, he might have thought her already dead, but she yet lived. He then crossed to her side, pulling a chair next to her bed to sit beside her. He gently took her hand and squeezed it to reassure her of his presence. Her skin was cold and clammy to the touch, as though she were a trout just recently caught from the river. She seemed to shiver at his touch, and immediately Denys asked one of the maids to fetch a few extra blankets.

_Was this how it was for Annalys in the end? The Seven be damned if they take Lysa too…_

He turned around and saw his goodfather standing in the threshold, looking far older than his eight and forty namedays as he starred at Lysa. His goodfather took a step further into the room, as if to join Denys. A single name escaped his lips, "Minisa", but as soon as he said it his goodfather shook his head and instead left the room without another word or even a glance to his own daughter.

Denys continued to hold his wife's hand, almost believing that by doing so he could keep her from being taken by the Stranger. The middle-aged maid returned with the blankets, and with his free hand, Denys helped her lay the blankets over his freezing wife. When she had finished with the task she walked over to the candelabra she had brought in, picked it up and then went about the room blowing out the rest of the candles, having finished her task she walked to the door and looked surprised to see Denys still at the side of the bed.

"My Lord, Maester Gormon says there's nothing to be done but to wait 'till morning," said the maid with almost a hint of motherly concern.

"I will stay here," he answered firmly.

"You'll be needing your sleep as well, my lord,"

"I can sleep here well enough," answered Denys.

"I would think a bed of your own would suit you more than a hard old chair, my lord," expressed the maid with obvious kindly intentions.

Denys nearly snapped at her as he replied, "This night may very well be my wife's last, and you suggest that I abandon her?!"

He stared down the maid, her overweight form trembling as he did so. After a moment of this she then said in a small, half-frightened voice, "F—forgive me, my lord I—I did not know… most lords and ladies don't care half as much for one another…"

_Most other lords and ladies have not endured the loss of one already…_

There was nothing but silence for a while, as Denys returned his gaze to Lysa. Not long after he had done so the maid spoke again, asking "I'll be leaving my lord… do you want me to light a candle again for you?"

"No," he answered. All the light he needed the hearth could provide.

Then silently and awkwardly the matronly maid left closing the door behind her. As she left Denys thought on her words and his feelings. He cared, by the Seven he cared. How could he not care? To be sure, Lysa was still very much a girl in many ways, but being only seven and ten namedays, she was close enough to one to still have some affectations. But she had improved some with time and attention—both of which she seemed to have been neglected of from her father, he had given her. She had carried their child in her womb… their child… to say that he should not care for Lysa was madness. She may not be the prettiest or the sweetest woman of his acquaintance, but she was his wife. And he would be here when she needed him the most. He knew not what to do, and he prayed to all the gods—old and new—on a sign. To give just the slightest hint on what to do.

In the following moment he felt some movement in his hand and looked down to see Lysa's frozen fingers—warmed up slightly by his—twitch and attempt to loosely grasp his in return. He looked up at her face—still as a statue—and suddenly he knew what he had to do. While still holding Lysa's hand he did his best to kick off his boots with his feet. It was awkward maneuvering to say the least, but now that Lysa had responded he would not abandon her—even for the briefest of seconds. He then climbed into the bed next to her, having but a little space to lay on his side and nearly teetering off the edge as he did so. It was only when he had brought Lysa more firmly within his grasp, bringing her body close to his and resting her head underneath his chin that he did let go of her hand. He then took his cloak and spreading it like a falcon's wing, covered them both in its spread. And so they remained as such until morning.

He was awoken by a harsh croaking sound from next to him.

"D—Denys?"

His eyes snapped open and he looked down beneath his cloak upon Lysa to see that her eyes were now open, and her breathing stronger than it had been the previous night.

_She lives… by the Seven, she lives!_

"Lysa!" he whispered and he held her more firmly in his grasp, kissing her forehead, and moving to better embrace her.

"I nearly thought the Stranger had taken you…" he honestly admitted.

"You did?" she asked dazed-like, obviously still groggy.

"You lost a lot of blood… Maester Gormon said there was a chance…"

"And the babe?" she asked.

"I… I'm sorry, Lysa. We can try again…"

Her eyes closed and a muffled but sorrowful groan escaped her lips as she cried the word "No" again and again into his shoulder, seeking his embrace.

"You're alive… that's what matters," half trying to assuage her grief and his at once for their unborn child's death.

And then she said two words he had not expected to hear, which caught him completely off guard, "Not again."

_Not again?_

But he had no time to think on this admission as it was just then that Grand Maester Gormon and a maid—most notably not the matronly one from last night—entered. He calmed Lysa down and urged her to allow Gormon and the woman to examine her, and after some assuring words that he would not leave her, she assented to the examination of the thoroughly surprised Gormon.

_He must have expected her to die…_

Denys returned to his chair as the Maester and the maid went about examining his wife. He met her eyes, which never left his

What had she meant by not again? They had been speaking of the loss of their child… had she and Jon had time to have lost a child? But then her arrival at King's Landing would have been graver, not giddy like the young maid all dressed in black as she had been…

His goodfather arrived with Ser Brynden, Edmure, and Asha as Maester Gormon had finished his examination, suggested her diet be changed to that of fish, nuts, and vegetables for the foreseeable future to help 'replenish the blood'. The Maester then left claiming that the King had requested his company. This left Denys, his goodfamily, and his ward alone with Lysa as the maid had been dismissed by Gormon after finishing his examination.

As the door closed from Gormon's departure, Edmure ran from his father's side and jumped onto the bed and hugged Lysa in an affectionate, troubled, and boyish manner. Crying and sobbing apologetic streams of words that could hardly be fully comprehended. Lysa was obviously caught off guard but she slowly comforted her brother while her gaze was fixed elsewhere in the room. Denys followed it to see Lysa glared at Asha. Asha stood still and lonely by the door, too awkward to further join the scene of family relief that Hoster and Ser Brynden added with their own presence. Though she put on a good face of stoic detachment, her red rimmed eyes gave away her true feelings beneath the deceptively smooth surface of her sea of emotions.

Lysa meanwhile showed her true feelings without any hesitation. She spat, "Send her away!"

"Lysa—" began her father.

"I want her gone! I don't want to see her here or anywhere again!" shouted Lysa.

"She's our ward," Denys added.

"She murdered our child!" retorted Lysa. At the sound of this Denys noticed that Edmure froze and a look of fear swept across his face.

Not a moment later they heard the door slam shut and Asha's absence was immediately noted.

"I'll get the girl," said Ser Brynden as Denys looked caught between

"It's my fault…" admitted Edmure quietly and clearly for the first time.

"What?" asked Lysa

"I… I… told you. I pushed her," admitted Edmure once again.

Lysa's gaze now fixed upon her younger brother.

"It was an accident," interjected Hoster before Lysa could say anything.

Denys added "They got into an argument over some silly childish nonsense and it escalated into them pushing each other. Edmure's last push just so happened to be at the top of the steps…" he explained further so that he could give his wife time to think on what she was to say, so that she might not say something she would later regret.

Unfortunately his efforts were in vain.

"Kinslayer."

He felt an icy tingle travel down his back like a water droplet. It was an overreaction, he thought—she was still in the pangs of sudden grief and loss, he justified, but that word still stung no matter how he tried to frame it—like she had intended. It was with that one word and one word alone that sent Edmure running for the door himself, but this time, Denys rose and grabbed hold of his goodbrother before he too could go running off into the confusing passageways of the Red Keep. Denys took Edmure into his grasp and hugged and comforted the

His goodfather spoke, clearly enraged, spoke to his daughter, "I know you have lost much, Lysa, but that is completely inexcusable! He is your brother! It was an accident. You could have very well stumbled yourself down the stairs and much the same would have happened."

Suddenly an odd look crossed Lysa's face as she said, "You're right… it isn't Edmure's fault."

At this Denys sighed with relief, she was coming to her senses. But then she instead glared at her father and shouted, "It's yours!"

Edmure was calming down now, or once again shocked with fear—in either case Denys began thinking that mayhaps it would be best to send him out of the room—but he could not leave Lysa, especially now that she was taking her grief out on anyone.

"You're not thinking straight," retorted Hoster, though Denys caught a slight quiver to his voice.

"You poisoned me, remember? You told me it would make me feel better!"

"Now is not the time to discuss the past," hissed Hoster, and suddenly Denys began to suspect that they were speaking of something which he had no knowledge of.

"He's calmed down," interjected Denys, feeling it best if Edmure left now. He would later ask his goodfather to explain what it was they were discussing. Right now, removing Edmure from Lysa's sickroom was the important thing.

His goodfather nodded, understanding what he meant and he took the still sniffling Edmure in his arms, carrying his thin and spindly son with a mess of auburn curls out of the room, leaving Denys and Lysa alone once again.

Lysa broke down into tears once again, and Denys went to her side, sitting upon the edge of the bed and drawing her close to him so he could soothe her in their shared grief.

She would regret what she had said to her father and brother when she was of sound mind once again, and he would help her return to it… no matter how long it took. He told her that they would have many more children, together they would repopulate the name of Arryn and she would be the mother to many. Lysa held him tighter at these words, and Denys reciprocated.


	4. Oswell II

**OSWELL**

His immediate reaction was to draw his sword. The hooded man put up his arms in a gesture of surrender.

"I assure you, Oswell, I come to you completely unarmed and with only my wits to defend me," said the man.

"Who are you?" demanded Oswell.

"Can you not recognize my voice? Well, I suppose not," and the man pulled back his hood to reveal himself as Varys—only he had since grown a beard it seemed. Somehow he had survived death and now lived.

"I see now you know me, Oswell," spoke Varys honestly.

"Why are you here?" asked Oswell.

"Cannot one exile visit another?" asked Varys with a grin.

"How do you know that I am an exile?" asked Oswell, knowing that he would have to play along as the man was likely to be part of the plots against the royal family.

"Because you haven't corrected me on not addressing you as a Ser yet. I heard they had stripped you of your knighthood—quite unfair truly. I mean you were obeying the commands of your prince, weren't you?"

Oswell scoffed purposefully before saying, "What would you know about it?"

"That Arthur Dayne and yourself since having been found in Dorne have been dismissed from the Kingsguard for failing to live up to your vows—though truly expecting a knight to keep every vow he swears to the letter when they conflict so easily is a

Oswell had to hand it to Varys, he knew which matters and sore subjects to mention. Had he actually left the crown on worse terms than he had, Oswell felt that he might just have been tempted to trust the eunuch—against his better inclinations.

"I only have one question for you, Oswell, one question and then I'll leave," added Varys.

"And what makes you think I'll let you ask that question?" asked Oswell as he brought his sword, hoping this would be a convincing enough display of a man who's lost himself for the eunuch to bite.

The eunuch spoke airily but with a tinge of threat phrased as a warning, "Because while I may not be armed, Oswell, you forget that I made my name here in Pentos—a name which the city well remembers. And beyond them I have little mice scurrying about the streets and in nearly every nook and cranny—if there's a secret to be had in Pentos, I already know of it. I've told but a few who remember that name well of my meeting here with you this evening, should I disappear—and my little mice will know if I disappear—they will wonder what had happened to me, and then they'll come searching for you. And believe me when I say that these people who remember me have long memories—as long as their swords, one might say."

Oswell gave a good shove to the eunuch and added a grunt for good measure. The eunuch smiled and then asked, "The babe that was at Starfall, what happened to it?" asked

"Dead as far as I know," was Oswell's only reply.

"What do you mean as far as you know? Did you see the infant dead or not?" asked Varys

"You said you were only going to ask one question. You have asked that one question, now, get out!" ordered Oswell—knowing that if Varys did not get everything he was looking for, he would return, and if he would return, mayhaps he could establish some way in to help benefit the crown as Prince Oberyn had suggested.

Varys chuckled, only saying, "Well played Oswell… well played indeed," before rising and heading to the door.

"By the by, I never took you for a man who enjoyed visiting a brothel. You always struck me as a man who upheld his vows," commented Varys.

"I'm not bound by any vows now," answered Oswell gruffly as he pulled out a whetstone and began to go through the motions of sharpening his sword.

"Clearly," stated Varys, and with that said, he exited Oswell's room.

The next morning Oswell awoke to the sound of children running through the narrow streets of Pentos. He arose and dressed in a simple tunic, breeches, boots, and a knife hidden in his right boot. He then went down to the common room. There he broke his fast over a plate of mash and a swig of grog at a rough hew table by himself. As he ate, he was approached by the innkeeper's daughter—Lysenia if he recalled her name correctly—and she sat at his table after having brought the food the inn's cook had prepared and he'd paid her to bring, having nothing else to do as it seemed the slow hour of the morning.

"Good morrow," she greeted sweetly enough in her accented tongue. As she sat down she twirled two of her fingers in her long silver-blond hair absent-mindlessly, as if enjoying the sensation twirling and untwirling her hair gave her.

He grunted in response, partly so as to not encourage her, and partly so as to keep his role as a disaffected warrior up.

"Did you not sleep well last night? If not, I can speak with my father and have the mattress attended to," commented Lysenia with some concern.

"The bed was satisfying," assured Oswell—the last thing he wanted was for the girl to call her disgruntled father over to speak with him.

"Just satisfying? We're one of the oldest inns in Pentos, we have a longstanding tradition of being a decent inn as well. Satisfying is not good enough,"

"There's no need, my little lady," said Oswell.

At this, Lysenia oddly paused and smiled. What was going through that girl's mind? He was even more struck by what she asked next. Her fingers stopped twirling, and her hair fell back into place. She then crossed her arms and leaned over the table and in quite close to him—almost to the point where she hovered over his plate of mash—and then she asked sweetly, "What brings you here from the Sunset Kingdoms?"

Knowing that Varys had not known where his room in the inn was on accident, Oswell spoke very cautiously, lest the girl be one of Varys' oh what had he called them again? Ah, yes… 'little mice'.

He spoke steadily and with a purposeful intent, asking, "Now what would a Pentoshi innkeeper's daughter care to hear about Westeros for?"

"A Pentoshi innkeeper's daughter hears songs of knights and fine ladies and tourneys… and wonders why anyone would want to leave such a place?"

"Westeros is hardly what the songs make it out to be, of that you can be quite sure" chortled Oswell as he finished his mash.

Before Lysenia could speak with him further her father called her back, and with a barely audible groan she obeyed, giving Oswell a smile before departing. She was a sweet girl, but just that… a girl.

Not long after he had finished his meal did he hear a whistle which caught his attention. He turned to see the bastard son of Oberyn Martell, with his violet hair, poking his head in through a nearby window. The boy jerked his head and Oswell took it as a sign to come. He left his plate at the table, knowing that Lysenia would soon return to clean up after him. Soon he was out on the narrow street following the scurrying violet-haired Dornish Essosi. They took many twists and turns until eventually Oswell noticed that he had come to the back door of the Starry Woman. The boy looked up at a window near the ground floor and stared, as if looking for some sign. Apparently it did not come as the boy put out his arm to stop him from continuing. The boy then led him to a nearby alcove, in line of sight of the window, but secluded enough for Oswell to be disguised in shadow.

"Have someone to hide from, boy?" asked Oswell.

"Mother not safe if you seen," said the boy with a broken tongue.

He wanted to tell the boy that hiding wasn't necessary since he was already known to be in the city, but considering how nervous his mother had been without that knowledge, he was sure that she wouldn't be apt to help him now if the truth were known, so he kept quiet about Varys' visit.

Being alone with the lad, Oswell took more stock of his features. He had been mistaken to think the boy had any eyes other than his father's—it must have been a trick of the light, and while the boy was indeed a miniature of his father, there were a few features which were slightly distorted in subtle ways, a slightly longer nose than was expected, a rounder shap to his head. Although he was obviously still a child and had some growing yet to do, Oswell wondered if the lad would indeed become

"Why look at me that way?" asked the boy.

"You look quite—" Oswell recalled what the boy's mother had said, about him coming to take away her son to Prince Oberyn, and decided to simply leave it ambiguous instead, saying, "—like someone I know from home."

"A man?" asked the boy with a pointed bit of curiosity.

"No, a woman," answered Oswell, hoping that would shut down the conversation. And it was the truth to a certain extent, Princess Elia and her bastard nephew did share some features in common.

The boy only snorted in response and shook his head, clearly not believing what he had said, but his eyes were caught and his head turned to more fully look at the window. Oswell did much the same and saw Andella at the window seeming to fluff out a sheet she meant to hang upon the wash line by her window. The boy then motioned for him to follow with a shake of his head, and then scurried across the crowded street to a door at the back of the Starry Woman. Oswell followed as discretely as possible, eventually following the boy into the back door which led through the kitchen and then upstairs to the chambers he had spoken with Andella in the afternoon before. There he met Andella who hugged her son and ran her hands through his hair and fussed over him in a very fast Pentoshi speech that was too quick for Oswell's comprehension. The boy nodded and Andella smiled. She then hurried him over to a bowl of cherries on a nearby table and let him sit and eat while she and Oswell spoke.

Andella spoke cautiously, "I will agree to the terms, but on one condition."

"And that would be?" asked Oswell.

"Should anything happen to me, I want my son to be taken by you to Westeros and raised there. Going against the Dārys Genes is much to ask of anyone, and I want to be sure that my boy will be looked after and have a good life if I cannot provide one for him anymore."

"You needn't ask, my lady," answered Oswell firmly, feeling for once he could let his act down.

"Good… having said that, let me say that the best place to find a rat is to find its nest. Find its nest and you can trap it," said Andella with conviction. She then handed him a slip of paper, upon it written in the common tongue were directions to a house in the city.

Andella then said, "That is not the rat's nest, but it is a place to start looking. Commit it to memory if you can. I will write to our friend and say that I've given what help I can at the moment."

When he said he had memorized the directions, she then took it from him and burned the paper, and Oswell took his leave and returned to the Eight Swords. There he wrote down the directions from his memory and locked it in his trunk for safe keeping. He would wait a few nights to see if Varys would return before he would try the house. After all, why chase a rat when one could draw it closer with a pocket full of rye?


	5. Eddard I

**EDDARD**

Eddard sat in the solar feeling quite uncomfortable in the chair in which his father had always sat in. It felt wrong to think of this room as his solar instead of his father's or even Brandon's, but like the North and Catelyn Tully it too was his now, and feeling uncomfortable within its walls would not do anyone—least of all his family—any good. So he would have to become accustomed to thinking of himself as the Lord of Winterfell and soon.

He then rose to look out his window to the courtyard below. There he saw young Raynald Westerling and Theon Greyjoy running about throwing the last of the melting snow at one another and getting each other completely soaked and dirtied under the indulging watchful eye of Old Nan. Catelyn would have a fit when she'd see them later, but Ned was simply glad that the two boys had taken to one another so well—of course the fact that Ned had purposefully asked for any clothes hinting at their family heritages be stored away somewhere out of sight may have had something to do with it, but he allowed himself to think that the two four year olds would have become fast friends if for no other reason than they were the only boys their age in all of Winterfell. Looking at the squid and the seashell laugh and run reminded him of his own days in the Eyrie with Robert. Oh how he missed the simplicity of those days…

Just then a knock was heard at the door, and Ned gathered himself and took his seat once again, arranging himself as best he could as the Lord of the castle. He then cleared his throat and told the person that they could enter as they wished.

His brother Benjen, whom he had been expecting to come speak with him for nearly a week now, entered with as much decorum as his three and ten namedays could muster. He had aged tremendously in the past year and a half since Ned had seen him. He no longer was so much a boy but was fast on his way to becoming a man. Ned motioned for Benjen to take a seat, and his brother did, nearly falling into it as he tripped over his own large feet like a pup before its growth spurt.

Benjen spoke good-naturedly, "It's good to see you in this room at last, Ned."

The easy smile that Benjen had shared with Brandon appeared on his face, and Ned was struck dumb by it for a moment. It was the same smile that Ned had seen upon Benjen's face when he had seen him arrive through the Southgate a few weeks prior, of that Ned was certain.

_Does he look forward to going to the wall that much? Gods… after the way I spoke with him, I would be too…_

After having settled into the routine of being Lord of Winterfell—a routine Benjen was clearly much better at handling than Ned felt he was the first few weeks—it was then that Ned decided it was time to broach the subject of the future with Benjen. He had asked him a few days ago to speak with him in the solar when he had the time and it wasn't until today that Benjen had taken him up on the offer.

"What is it you wanted to speak with me about?" asked Benjen. His brother's smile faded and a mask of seriousness having since replaced it.

Ned wanted to ease into the conversation and so he began by saying, "No doubt you've been waiting for this talk for some time…"

"Was I to be expecting a talk of some kind?" asked Benjen

_Lyanna hasn't told him?_

"I had told Lya to tell you that I wished to speak with you about… certain matters, but it appears our sister is forgetful," said Ned with a slight smile, which he hoped Ben would shared.

However his three and ten nameday old brother simply looked at him with greater concern as he asked, "What do you want to speak about, Ned?"

Ned sighed and continued, "What do you want to do with your life Ben? When last we spoke… well, I apologize for what I said… It was wrong of me, I was angry, confused and tired—I'd barely made it across the Bite alive, and I'd been mulling all that time on the news of Brandon and father's deaths. I… I should not have said any of it. Least of all to you."

Benjen during his admission had lowered his eyes to the floor. Now that Ned had finished his brother still did not meet his eyes, instead feigning to have great interest in his awkwardly large adolescent feet.

After several moments Benjen then said rather maturely, "It is in the past, Ned." Ned had half expected him to take his own turn at yelling at him, but Ned could now see the bit of melancholy

_He still blames himself. Gods… I shouldn't have said it was…_

He tried to dissuade him, saying, "It wasn't your fault Ben."

Benjen nearly scoffed as he said, "Lya tried to tell me the same thing… but it doesn't change anything. Father and Brandon will always be dead now."

_So Lya did speak to him…_

He said hopefully, "We can only live with the past, Ben… but it need not dominate our future."

"I will stay here until I'm a man grown, Ned. I've promised Lya that much."

"Is that what you truly want, Ben?" asked Ned.

Benjen was silent for a while before shrugging his shoulders and saying, "I know not…"

"If it's what you truly want, then when you are a man grown I won't stop you from going. But, since I am Lord of Winterfell now, I need to consider other options for your future if you do not choose that one. I need to consider what would be best for the family."

At this Benjen at long last met his eyes.

Ned spoke truly, "Our family name is dangerously close to withering out, Ben."

"Cousin Benjen and Aunt Branda in Barrowton—" began Benjen firmly.

Ned retorted, "They took Brandon in to foster because they knew they wouldn't have any children of their own."

Benjen sighed and then offered, "Great Uncle Brandon…"

"Has a half-ruined keep in the Wolfswood somewhere and no one has heard from him in over a decade. Gods, he didn't even come out to go to Bear Island when his mother's kin rallied the Wolfswood and Mountain Clans. He might be dead for all we know. And our Cousin Brandon died before our brother was fostered. In fact, that's why father was asked by Benjen and Branda if they could foster our brother. The only other close relatives we have are our Great Aunt's and all her children bear the name of Royce. We are the only ones left to keep the name of Stark alive. Gods forbid something should happen to myself and Robb, that leaves you and any children you may have."

"You could always have a large litter of children," countered Benjen.

Ned bristled at the thought of comparing children to a kennel's worth but put that thought aside as he admitted, "I intend to, but say Catelyn cannot?"

Benjen obviously seemed to be pulling at straws as he said, "Then there's Jon."

_Aye, then there's Jon. Ashara's son… who one day might leave the North to see his mother's family and might never return…_

Ned said, "He is a Snow and whatever future awaits him, he has the opportunity to make it for himself because of that name."

"So I have no choice, then?" asked Benjen with all the sullenness an adolescent could muster.

Ned did not want to be put into the same position that Father had been in and admitted as much, "I didn't say that, Ben…"

Benjen scoffed, "You may as well have."

"Would it be so bad to marry, have two sons, see them grown into strong capable young men, and then, if you still desire it, you could join the Night's Watch? It is honorable to join the Night's Watch, this is true, but the Wall will still be there when you are near forty as much as it is there today." answered Ned.

Benjen once again was silent, but then met his eyes and asked, "And how would I support this family?"

Ned felt relief flood through him before he replied, "When I was planning on returning from Bear Island, I had to send a ship all the way down our western coast, through Blazewater Bay, through the Saltspear, and to the mouth of the Barrow River. There is no port of easy access on our western coast. A few fishermen's docks at Deepwood Motte and other scattered fishing villages like Ashby exist, but there is no western equivalent to White Harbor. The closest is Seaguard in the Riverlands. And while my wife and son may have Tully blood, relying on Seaguard as our western port of call for untold generations to come would be unwise—not to mention that would mean having to deal with that weasely House Frey more frequently than I would desire."

Ned took a breath before continuing, "With Euron Greyjoy still yet to be found, and Bear Island an island of children, we need some kind of harbor on our western shores, Ben. The Iron Isles are weak now, and we have their Lord fostered here. They're the only reason I could see not to found a harbor of some sort, and if Theon Greyjoy is raised properly we might be able to count on the Ironborn as an ally should the worse arise. Euron is still out there, but with the rest of them beaten back, it's the perfect opportunity to build some sort of harbor and build its defenses strong. King Jon Stark built the Wolf's Den and thus founded the beginnings of White Harbor to drive pirates from our eastern shores. I would have you do as much for our western shores. You would be master of your own holding and sworn directly to Winterfell, but it would be yours to command, Ben."

From the look upon Benjen's face, Ned knew that the offer was attractive to him, "And where would I have this holding?"

Ned pulled out a map of the North and laid it across the desk, inviting Benjen to have a look. As he spoke of the lands in question—remembering what he had read about them from his grandfather Rodrik, "the Wandering Wolf" Stark's accounts from having traveled across all the North before traveling to Essos and join the Second Sons Company—he pointed them out to Benjen, saying, "I have two lands that are yours to choose from: the Stony Shore or Sea Dragon Point. Both are without any kind of organization and each have their benefits and limitations."

Pointing to the furthest portion of the western coast from Winterfell, he said, "The Stony Shore is the furthest away in terms of distance by land and would need a road built to it for ease of travel, but it is the heart of our western coast and as close to Cape Kraken as it is to Bear Island. It already has a few fishing villages like Ashby, and it would give you command of the Blazewater River and its tributaries that go up into the mountains, plus whatever resources you can find amongst those hills. It isn't heavily forested, but it has trees enough to build a Harbor with."

Moving his finger north to the cape shaped in the head of a dragon, Ned then said, "Sea Dragon Point is fully forested and has many resources, most especially lumber, and it would be quite close to Bear Island should Euron Greyjoy return. It's abandoned though, full of old ruined keeps from before the Great Spring Sickness, and has grown quite wild in the last century. You would have to attract people to the point as there are few fishing villages that aren't already sworn to House Glover near there. A road would have to be built to your harbor, but it would be a much shorter road than anything required for the Stony Shore."

Benjen met his eyes and smirked, "You've been planning this out for a while."

_What else do you think I've been doing for the past few week, Ben?_

Ned admitted, "As a Stark and my brother, you deserve the best consideration for your future. Father told me that he'd find a keep somewhere either near the mountain clans or in the Wolfswood and I would get to choose my wife. That was all I was to expect and all I'd ever get from him. I'd give you a bit more, and besides… I—I owe it to you."

Benjen spoke, seeing clearly through to what he was trying to say, and Ned thanked the gods that he could do so, "You want me to stay."

"Aye… we've lost father and Brandon. Lya… well, Lya will be Queen. The pack is splitting apart Ben… can you blame me for wanting to keep as much of it together as I can?" Ned asked Benjen.

"No…" answered Benjen stoically.

A long silence fell between them both before Benjen continued, obviously having thought on the situation the entirety of the time, "If I choose to do this, I also want to be able to choose my wife, Ned. Father gave that to you, I'd do as much myself."

Ned nearly smiled, but kept his feelings under control, knowing that he needed at this moment to be Lord Eddard, even if he was talking to his pup of a brother, "Of course… if anyone should make an offer, I'll bring the offers to you, but in the end the choice will still be yours."

Benjen, now looked all his three and ten namedays, his mask of maturity seeming to slip slightly as he admitted, "This is more than I ever imagined I'd get… how am I going to manage a harbor, Ned? I know next to nothing of ships and ports."

Ned assured his brother, "Worry not, we have a few years yet before you are a man grown. Plenty of time for you to learn all that you need."

"But who will teach me?" asked Benjen

It was then that Ned noticed a letter from White Harbor that had arrived not long ago. Although it was from Ser Davos, it was mentioned as having been written down for him by a notary of the city. Ser Davos spoke that all the best land on the eastern coast had already been claimed. Ned had been set to respond about sailing for the western coast then, but now he saw an opportunity to help both his brother and reward the newly-made knight.

"Ben, I think I know exactly whom you can speak with," answered Ned, and this time he allowed a slight smile.

Benjen groaned, "Don't tell me you're sending me to Lord Manderly."

Ned shook his head and then answered, "Eventually you must speak with him, but for right now you could discuss with someone who has experience with ports outside of the North… someone who helped me bring our sister back, whom I promised a keep and a little land as a knight to in the North. Your first bannerman, Ben, Ser Davos."


	6. Brynden

**BRYNDEN**

How he had ended up in charge of twelve children, only the Seven knew. Twelve children! His own nephew, ten squires of varying ages from seven to fourteen from nearly every house in the Riverlands with an available heir to send to "squire with the Blackfish", and one girl, the Ironborn, Asha Greyjoy. Asha had been a last minute addition as Lysa had refused to foster the girl in the Eyrie with her as was originally planned by her husband. Hoster, being ever the opportunistic man he was had then decided to step in and suggest that Asha be fostered instead at Riverrun, in order to "ease Lysa's sorrows".

But Brynden could see exactly where his brother's mind was going—he was hoping for a possible marriage for Edmure to come from the fostering, Brynden just knew it. Just to spite his brother's plotting Brynden hoped one of the other boys would end up winning the girl's heart. That would serve Hoster right! Well, mayhaps not the Frey boy, Perwyn. It wasn't like his father deserved anything after his lack of loyalty during the rebellion.

That was one situation that Brynden had been completely behind his brother on: the humbling of House Frey. During the war House Frey under Lord Walder had played as a neutral party, claiming that in all cases they could not mobilize their forces in time to join the army. As such penalties for sitting the war out and disobedience to the command that he call his banners were brought upon the old weasel's head. Tolls on the bridge were to be set by House Tully and a levy was placed on the tolls received by House Frey for their crossing, with portions to be sent to both Seaguard and Riverrun for as long as Lord Walder remained alive. Notaries and toll collectors loyal to House Tully would visit the Twins every moon to review its records and collect the levies.

If House Frey was caught in holding larger portions of the tolls than they were allowed, severe punishment would be meted out. In addition Hoster threatened to take nearly every land but the lands immediately surrounding the Twins from House Frey and "build a second bridge" across the Green Fork down river if House Frey showed any reluctance to meet these demands. The only part Brynden had any quibble with was the penalty being dependent on Lord Walder's life. Lord Walder was an old man, having lived to see six and seventy namedays—not a tremendously old man as others had lived longer lives amongst the noble houses of Westeros, but old nonetheless. He could croak next month or be quietly killed by his own relations being more likely. However given the way Hoster and Lord Walder's heir and age peer with Hoster, Ser Stevron corresponded over the years, mayhaps that was exactly what Hoster was prepared for the most. Lord Walder's eldest son by his current marriage to Bethany, formerly of House Rosby, Perwyn, was officially brought to Riverrun with the hopes that relations between the two houses could be amended in the peace, though Brynden recognized it as a blatant way to sweeten the sour deal for Lord Walder.

The other charges under his watch included Lord Jason Mallister's young son of seven namedays, Patrek, the youngest of the group and barely old enough to squire in Brynden's opinion. Marq Piper who was of age with Edmure had quickly become his fast friend in addition to sheltering the young Patrek under his wing from the other boys who jape the young eaglet, was otherwise vain but a decent with a wooden sword. Liam Mooton and Lymond Goodbrook, whose families had sided with the Targaryens were brought to Riverrun with the hopes of healing the wounds of war, both boys were of the quiet variety and kept to themselves. Ronald and Hugo Vance were two brothers of nine and eight who Brynden predicted with the amount of mischief they got into would give him grey hairs before he was fifty—something he had managed to avoid until now. Tristan Ryger was another boy... truly he had done nothing spectacular in Brynden's eyes. Tristan simply occupied space, did what drills he told him to do, ate his food, and slept. There was nothing remarkable or interesting to say about the young Ryger heir. Brynden Blackwood—whom his father had obviously named after him for their shared time in the Ninepenny War—and Hendry Bracken were both sent to Riverrun in an attempt to keep both families in check that the Tullys would favor neither Bracken nor Blackwood more than the other. Both boys frequently got into fisticuffs over some imagined slight or other over their families or lands. Their fights were so regular; one could nearly tell time by which number of fight had broken out between the two. Of all his charges, the one and ten Perwyn was the most well behaved and most attentive to his swordplay, even if he was a Frey. Mayhaps it was his mother's Rosby blood which made him turn out for the better.

Then of course there was Asha Greyjoy…

The girl at first had been sullen upon their arrival at Riverrun—as she had been ever since the push at the tournament. For Brynden, having her be sullen hadn't been wholly that bad as Edmure had likewise been sullen and withdrawn. The two made quite a mopey pair the entire journey, almost seeming to be trying to out-mope one another, but Brynden knew better than to suspect either child of doing that. In truth, they likely felt horrible at nearly causing the death of Lysa—and the first brush with death, no matter the age, was a thing worthy of contemplation and bit of moping in Brynden's opinion.

_It'll make them appreciate what little they have all the more…_

But once all the other boys had arrived to distract Edmure, Asha had withdrawn even further into herself, becoming quick to anger and get a rise from with the smallest of provocations. One week she made a large deal over how she did not wish to be treated as a lady. She made that abundantly clear one particular morning causing the Septa requested specifically for her to interrupt his lessons with the boys so she could thrown a torn and muddied dress at him, exclaiming that the child could go naked for all she cared. Thinking if the girl didn't want to wear dresses he decided to try giving her old, shabby, nearly worn out pairs of trousers and other boy's clothes that were too small for Edmure, and Asha immediately took a liking to wearing them and her mood improved nearly over night. It hadn't been the reaction Brynden had expected. Catelyn and Lysa would have balked at the idea of wearing anything so shabby, but Asha seemed to love the excuse to wear them out even further climbing the parapets and finding rocks to throw into the Tumblestone below.

The next phase in her campaign against being a lady came when she decided one day that she would not go to her lessons with her Septa. When her first few attempts to skip out on lessons had been discovered and she was forced by a guard to sit in the same room as the Septa, the situation simply grew worse. The shrill woman could be heard clear across the castle arguing with the stubborn squid, once again disrupting his lessons with the boys.

Eventually after things quieted down, Brynden would notice that the Greyjoy girl had sneaked outside to watch as his young squires' practice. Occasionally he'd notice she would pick up a weapon carelessly laid aside by one of his squires—usually either Brynden or Hendry so they could continue a fight they'd started earlier once they had grown bored having accomplished the tasks he'd set for them to accomplish—and attempt to use it. At first he thought to chide Asha until she lazily had taken aim with a small knife and hit an empty target rather decently. That alone had shocked him and caused him later to seek out the girl.

"So you favor a knife?" asked Brynden casually.

"My nuncle taught me..." answered the squid girl simply.

"To defend yourself?" asked Brynden with some curiosity

"To kill greenlanders," retorted Asha as this time—after the hundredth or so throw—the knife stuck directly in the center of the target.

She had talent and determination, of that Brynden had to admit. Given enough time and practice she could become an excellent marksman with a throwing knife, mayhaps even graduate to a deadlier weapon like a throwing axe that Ironborn were so fond of. Brynden shivered at the thought of waking up to find an axe thrown straight for his head. These were dangerous lines to encourage a young squid in, but it seemed that turning the girl into the Maiden reborn would not win her affection and loyalty. If anything it would only sew the seeds of destruction and distrust further. It was then Brynden thought of a potential way he could turn this for his favor.

"Would you care to join the rest of the boys in their lessons?" offered Brynden, while he silently prayed to the Seven this would work.

"But then how will I be a proper lady?" scoffed Asha with the cynicism of a child much older than her young years.

"You have talent with a knife, mayhaps one day you might be able to throw an axe as well if you keep up your practice," suggested Brynden.

At this Asha looked up at him with at once suspicious but also hungry and appreciative eyes. He'd seen that look before in Catelyn, Lysa, and Edmure—all for different reasons, but he recognized it all the same. Yes… this was the way to win her loyalty.

She noticed that he had seen her drop her guard, and shook her head and tried to counter cooly, "My nuncle would've taught me."

He reminded her, "But your nuncle is not here. I am."

She agreed with a mumble, "Aye… for now, until you get tired of me…"

Of course… how could he have been so blind as to not see it before? Shuffled around and abandoned by lord after lord—forsaken even by her own family in the form of her mother's brother—of course she would think that way. She wasn't the type to respond well to pity, that Brynden knew right off, but how to appease her?

"I expect you to be dressed and ready tomorrow for your first lesson. I expect you to work just as hard as my squires and nephew. If you don't then it's back to the Septa," said Brynden definitively.

And the next day she was there alongside Patrek Mallister as the two youngest amongst his charges. Throwing knives were what she did well with, and learning how to hold a wooden sword held little interest for her. Initially the bow and arrows held little interest for her, but with much practice over the next few moons she began to become a better shot, in fact she worked at the skill with so much determination that she began to surpass a few of his charges in the skill—most notably Edmure—who had begun to find excuses to keep from practicing on his own accord, and spending his few free hours getting into all sorts of mischief with the Vance brothers and Marq Piper. Unfortunately he was not the only one to notice this discrepancy in skill and one day when Edmure had opened his mouth and said something without thinking to Liam Mooton about his lack of skills with a wooden sword, the boy had retorted with little thought that he was one to talk with a girl being a better shot with a bow than he was. Brynden had broken up the fight that had broken out shortly thereafter with the help of his Blackwood namesake and Hendry Bracken.

That of course had prompted the kind of ribbing that boys left to one another will be apt to do, leading to his nephew—the fool that he was—challenging the squid girl to an impromptu archery competition that he promptly showed just how his neglect of practicing had paid off. While Asha was far from a markswoman, she had quite clearly done better than Edmure. Brynden observed these interactions with an amused detachment—hoping that the squid girl's abilities would prompt some kind of response from Edmure to take his training more seriously. It did in fact do just that, leading Edmure to spend the majority of his free hours standing in front of a target with a bow and arrows in hand. The only drawback to this was the fool decided to do this in any weather, refusing to give up any possible hour of practice.

When it began to rain heavily, Brynden had had enough and he dragged his cold and soaked nephew in from the range. A blanket and fresh clothes were found, while Edmure was brought before a warm hearth, but by the sneeze and slight cough his nephew had at the evening's end, Brynden knew that the damage had been done. Well, the boy would learn his lessons the hard way or not at all, it seemed. Seven see that he learn many things before becoming Lord of the Riverlands.

The next day Edmure was reluctant to rise and break his fast until Hendry Bracken was sent with permission to drag him from his bed if need be. His red-rimmed, bleary-eyed, groggy, and stuffy nosed nephew appeared at the table not too long thereafter. Brynden didn't let the fact that Edmure had a slight cold bother him at all. It was the boy's own fault and he'd have to deal with the consequences of his own actions. Or at least that's what he kept telling himself as Edmure spilled food off his plate, dropped the arrows from their quiver, or was knocked over during his practice sword fight with Lymond Goodbrook. Brynden even managed to continue telling himself this when Edmure managed to purge his stomach of all his bile upon the grass—the third time only producing a tiny amount of spittle.

"Ser Brynden, shouldn't he see the maester?" asked the quiet Tristan Ryger after this last time. And it was upon this prompting alone that Brynden caved in his stubbornness to have Edmure learn his lesson the hard way and had Tristan help Edmure up to the maester's tower.

It wasn't until after dinner had been served and consumed that Brynden spoke with the worried maester, who said rather bluntly, "He is not well, Ser Brynden. He's not well at all. He has terrible shivers, in addition to a horridly high temperature. He can barely keep his water down. If things continue to get any worse for young Lord Edmure, it might be time to begin praying to the Stranger."

No other words he had heard in his life before or since had managed to scare or shock him so completely than those.


	7. Oberyn I

**OBERYN**

He enjoyed spending time with his girls, all four of them. In some ways he could see parts of himself dispersed amongst each of them as well as their mothers. Strong Obara who was one and ten namedays, had chosen his spear over her mother's tears—even if she did look like her mother for the most part—and was determined to live up to the legacy of her ancestress Nymeria. Then his eight namedays old daughter named for that same ancestress but was far more like her Volantene aristocrat of a mother, but then she had taken an interest in a knife he had given her recently for her last nameday. Then there was sweet six namedays old Tyene who was very much of fair stony Dornish complexion and whose sweetness hid a devious little mind that he recognized as kin to his own. Lastly of his girls was his Sarella, who was only two namedays old and who he had just recently brought to Sunspear. She was as dark-skinned as her lovely mother, the Summer Isles ship's captain, had been, and always seeming to get into something—having the curiosity which had kept him at Oldtown for a time. He adored his girls and doted on them well, calling them his little Sand Snakes.

Their newest companions in King's Landing were their cousin Rhaenys—who Elia brought frequently to play with his girls when Rhaenys wasn't in her lessons, and Mya Stone an interesting girl herself. Being only three namedays old, the toddler Mya Stone, bastard daughter to the newly crowned King, who shared his hair and eyes, was limited in how she could participate with his daughters on their schemes—most often being left behind with Sarella and Rhaenys on the more complex ones—but Tyene and Nymeria took to playing with and even doting on the little stubborn toddler and finding ways of calming and coaxing the girl when her hopeless Septa could not. The only thing that kept them from interacting more frequently from the stone stag was the fact that unlike his daughters, Mya Stone did not live in the Red Keep. Instead she was kept in a decent home (though not a manse) with a Septa and a few servants to look after her between her father's visits or hers to the Red Keep after the King had agreed that the Sand Snakes to be suitable companions for his bastard daughter. The King visited his daughter frequently from what Oberyn could tell, and seemed inclined to want to spoil her as much as he was able to as a kind of compensation for not being able to keep her closer than he could.

"Father, do we have any brothers?" asked Obara, breaking him from his reverie.

He commented, "None that I know of. Are you tired of your sisters?"

Obara's look at Nymeria and Tyene playing in their pretty dresses by a table full of cups was all he needed to understand her mind. Of course his eldest would want to fight with a brother. When he had been about her age, he'd had plenty of older brothers to spar with and enjoy the company of. Why should she be any different?

He laughed and said, "If I ever find that you have any brothers, Obara, you will be the first person I tell, of that you have my word."

His eldest seemed pleased with this and she returned to practicing with her spear, and he gave her a few pointers on her form before leaving her to her practice as he had found her before entering the gardens of the Red Keep. He then joined his two middle daughters in what appeared to be a private little brunch, only when he asked what they were doing did he realize what the situation truly was.

Tyene announced with a wicked little grin of her own, "Nymeria's rying to find the poisoned cup!"

And as he listened to the childish game of Tyene "poisoning" one of the eight cups before him with an invisible dye that would stain the lips blue for a short time of whomever drank it. Nymeria was attempting to guess the correct one that Tyene had hidden, Oberyn marveled at his two daughters' craftiness. He joined their game for a round and managed to find the poisoned cup easily—Tyene gave it away with subtle hints in her body language that she'd not yet learned to mask nor Nymeria had yet to learn to read—but pretended not to know and so he playfully teased them by drinking the poisoned cup. He then made an overly melodramatic death swoon as he fell to the ground, speaking about his untimely death in a manner most songs eulogized of dead heroes.

"No, no, no! Now you're dead!" pouted Nymeria as she tried wiping off the blue dye from his lips.

"There's nothing you can do for me Nym… it is… too late! Bury me in the Water Garden, girls, in a sunny spot that overlooks the sea…" and he gave an overdone groan in his pretend death throws.

"Now you're just being silly. That's not poison, its just dye," laughed Tyene.

Immediately knowing that to linger playing dead might scare his girls—or why else would Tyene insist on breaking the illusion and ending the game like that—he immediately shifted to his side and said, "Oh, it is?"

Tyene and Nymeria immediately tried laughing it off but the way Nymeria clung to him and then Tyene joined her spoke loudly that mayhaps he had taken their little game a bit too far for their comfort.

Just as he hugged both his girls he then took notice that by a nearby calm fountain sat Ellaria Sand, Lord Uller's six and ten—no just recently seven and ten she had said—bastard daughter. She was not a great beauty, but in her own exotic looks and manners from her Lyseni mother, Ellaria held a beauty all her own. She had a larger nose than most, but this on her guant face and tanned skin seemed to excentuate her attractiveness. Her long dark hair was adorned with weaves of red, yellow, and purple strands of false hair—the colors of her father's banners. She had escorted his girls on their journey up from Sunspear upon his request as he thought she would and now having arrived he'd seen to it that she be part of his official household in continuing to see to their needs. She did such an excellent job of it he could almost imagine her as mother to all four of his girls and was quickly becoming desirous that any future children he would have would be with her. Ellaria sat watching over his youngest Sarella and the king's bastard Mya played in the shallow waters of the fountain. He watched as Ellaria playfully joined Sarella and Mya in a game of splashing and wave making the water soaking her silks and giving Oberyn the barest glimpse of her body beneath. She seemed to feel his stare because she looked up and took notice of him. Their eyes were caught with one another and he could see a fiery intensity—like that of her father's banner—within them. He was entranced. Never before had a woman ever so enamored him.

"Father…" complained Tyene as she struggled to wiggle free from his firm and overlong held grasp, breaking the spell that Ellaria had had him under. He let his two daughters go and they abandoned the table of eight cups for another game that took them further into the hedgerows of the gardens. He likewise abandoned the table of eight cups and was about to join Ellaria and the youngest girls by the fountain when a guard approached him, saying that the Grand Maester was searching for him and wished to speak with him.

Oberyn grumbled to himself about the Tyrell-born master always interrupting his pleasure and gave a brief nod of departure to Ellaria so she would know to tell his girls that he had to leave when he would later be missed.

The Grand Maester discovered him and the guard on their journey to the Maester's Tower. Gormon was the sight of a thin Mace Tyrell with greying hair. He carried with him two letters which Gormon seemed to have felt were priority. One of which came with no sigil pressed into the misshapen white wax seal, and the other obviously came from Sunspear with the orange wax clearly indented with a speared sun.

_What could Doran want now?_

Oberyn thanked Gormon for his due diligence in delivering the letters and then proceeded to his own compartments so he could read his received missives in private.

Doran kept in close contact having connections all over Westeros, sharing whatever information he could find with Oberyn when necessary—all of which was written in code and took an hour to decipher at least. He'd save Doran's news for later. First he would satiate his curiosity of who had sent the mysterious letter.

The letter he quickly surmised came from Oswell, though with the nearly illegible writing and perfumed scent he immediately surmised that it actually came from Andella… ahh the first whore he'd had in Essos, and quite the pleasure they had had of one another.

He continued reading to find that Oswell had indeed made it safely to Pentos and had made contact not only with her but with Varys—who went by the name of the Dārys Genes, or Rat King, since his informants in Pentos were called "little mice".

_That explains the "squeak squeak"..._

Oberyn felt his blood boil that the man had tried to have him assassinated, but he put these feelings aside and continued reading on.

None of this of course was written plainly but in a kind of double speech that looked like nonsense at first. He could only assume that Oswell meant the Dārys Genes to be Varys as what other "cut man" did they both know? Lastly Oswell ended the letter promising to look after his seed and fulfill his word.

It took Oberyn a moment to realize exactly what Oswell meant by "his seed" but when he had he smiled—it seemed the old bat had taken him up on his suggestion after all. That of course left Oberyn with the task of seeing to it that the young Lady Shella Whent was looked after properly. The girl was either two and ten or three and ten and would need a betrothal in a few years. He made a note to review a few Riverlands houses and speak with Lord Tully later on the subject when he returned from Riverrun.

Then Oberyn took to decoding Doran's message, soon learning that the young lioness of Casterly Rock was to visit King's Landing along with her brother the Lord and uncle the regent, officially to swear loyalty to the King but most likely on a mission to attempt to betroth the girl to the younger brother of the King. Doran also spoke of how the pretender Aegon faired in the North under Lord Eddard's care and that any point on gathering further information about the likely Blackfyre was a moot point as it seemed no one else knew who or where he was nor seemed to care anymore. Lastly Doran asked him to give his love to Elia and his nieces.

Oberyn burned both letters, knowing it unwise to keep either in case his purge of Varys' little birds of the Red Keep had missed a few.


	8. Hoster

**HOSTER**

When Grand Maester Gormon had handed him the letter from Riverrun, Hoster had thought himself well in the clear. Lysa had recovered and was set to leave for the Vale in a moon with Denys, he'd apologized for his rash actions and she'd listened to him at the very least. The King was once again under complete supervision and being urged to settle a matter on Cracklaw Point as to a border dispute on whether it should belong to the Seat of the Narrow Sea or to the Crown directly—which would involve a trip to the point and its wild collection of First Men clans that the King was sure to enjoy conversing with. The matter though would have to wait until the next full moon to be settled, and so the King spent his days at Hoster's prodding of touring the vineyards and farmlands of the Crownlands as a kind of goodwill expedition. Hoster had encouraged the King to be out and amongst his people, stating that only an usurper would fear being amongst his own people. But then the letter with the red wax seal of a trout had arrived in his hands, bearing the horrible news it had. Only being able to write a quick note to Denys on seeing that the capital was looked after in the King's absence, Hoster had taken a horse and ridden as fast as he could all the way to Riverrun, barely stopping to eat, sleep, and defecate—all that seemed unimportant with Edmure's life easing out of him. Why were the Seven testing him now? Was Cat next? Brynden? Or mayhaps himself at the end of a long line of near-misses and accidents?

To say that Brynden had been negligent would be simply stating the obvious. Brynden had been more than negligent but he'd also been bloody obstinate, just like he'd always been. Instead of doing the sensible thing of keeping Edmure in bed so he could rest and heal, he instead had insisted that Edmure "work through it" and consider it his "punishment" for his foolishness at being beaten by the Greyjoy girl.

_What was Brynden thinking?_

Hoster was prepared to give his brother an earful of his mind, but upon his arrival at Riverrun the sight of his brother's pained expression, clear lack of sleep, and refusal to eat much at all had dulled Hoster's desire to censure him. His four and forty nameday old brother still looked almost as he had a decade previous—he had lived a healthy vigorous nearly unsullied existence after all, minus the cut part—but there were now obvious signs of age and weary—lines were beginning to form from sleepless nights. He would still give him his thoughts, but it was nowhere near the fire and brimstone he had been preparing to give him upon first receiving his letter in the capital.

He asked Brynden immediately upon isolating him in his solar, "How could you?"

Brynden looked confused by his question.

Hoster continued, "He is my son. The only one I'll ever have—the only future our House has. He could die and you know where that puts House Tully?"

"I'm not blind!" recoiled Brynden with a pained expression.

"So you say," scoffed Hoster.

Brynden began, "Catelyn's boy, should the worst happen could—"

Hoster cut him off saying, "Robb is a Stark, not a Tully. And besides if I were to name him my heir his father might move to make his bastard fallen star the heir to Winterfell."

"She could have more sons," offered Brynden.

Hoster countered, "Or have all daughters, or die in her next pregnancy like Minisa… when considering the future of our house it's best not to assume we'll have more heirs than we actually do."

Brynden was growing more irritated as he suggested, "Lysa might have a future son."

Hoster sighed and felt guilt consume him. At the time it had been the sensible thing to do—if she had carried the child to full term, the betrothal with the Lannisters might have fallen through—seven hells she may have died giving birth at such a young age or destroyed any future chance of having any more children. But despite keeping Lysa's child a secret and killing it before it had come out of her the alliance had still fallen through because of damned Aerys.

_And now she's lost another child…_

He sighed and fully admitted, "She might never carry a child to full term thanks to me."

Brynden's irritation waned and he nodded his head, and the two brothers sat in the longest silence either had ever endured in each other's company in many years.

Finally Hoster felt the need to continue by saying, "If Edmure dies, I'd leave Riverrun to you when I meet the Stranger. And after you die, who then is left to carry on our house name? No one. This is how houses become extinct, by pinning too many hopes on one person to bear the load for the rest of the family."

Brynden frowned, clearly picking up on the not-so-subtle dig he'd buried in there for him. He then stated, "You could marry again."

"And have another son? No guarantee that I could do so, and I'm getting to be too old and too tired. Seven hells, I'm nearly fifty, Brynden. By the time any theoretical son I'd have becomes a man grown, assuming I marry and sire him within the next moon, I'll be well over sixty and too old to be of any damn use—hell, I might even be dead, we're not all Walder Frey after all. And with being Hand of the King, I already feel as if I've aged a decade in the last year alone."

Brynden had nothing to say in retort, and Hoster wondered what conclusion he could possibly come to. Would he consider? No. He had made it abundantly clear he would not—after nearly thirty years of refusal, he was far too stubborn and obstinate to change now. Edmure would remain the only hope for House Tully, of that Hoster could feel in his bones.

So Hoster stood and looked his blackfish of a brother in the eye and left him with these parting thoughts, "My son with his ragged little breaths is the only chance at our family name continuing on… and if he dies so does our House."

Having said his say Hoster left his brother in his solar to think on what he'd said, finding his way to the castle Sept. He entered the quiet and sacred place and found himself soon alternating his prayers before the father and the mother. He asked for compassion and mercy from the mother, and for justice from the father. He was just about to turn to the Stranger to pray that he spare Edmure's life, when the doors to the Sept burst open and in came Brynden, obviously quite perturbed about something.

"I know what you're trying to do, Hoster! And may the Seven damn your opportunistic hide for it!" blustered his brother. The Septon who had been chanting a prayer as he spread some incense around the chapel immediately stopped and gave Brynden a dirty look for swearing so openly in the Sept.

"What?" asked Hoster, genuinely rattled by his brother's disturbance of his prayer and quiet solitude.

The wind beneath his brother's sails seemed to die down, his fury calm and he sighed and leaned in in an exhausted and defeated manner saying, "You win, Hoster. After all these years, you win. I give you my word as a Tully that I'll do it, but know that I'll choose, know that. I'll be the one to choose!"

Having said his say, Brynden stormed out of the Sept leaving the Septon to grumble at his equally noisy and near blasphemous departure and Hoster still in shock.

Hoster was still confused as to what Brynden meant as he then stormed out of the Sept. Hoster though had no time to consider his words as the master had called him to come immediately to his son's chambers as the boy had called out for him. Hoster immediately rushed to his son's chambers worry that he had been too late in his prayers, that he couldn't have made a Seven-folded wreath like Minisa could to protect him that he hadn't done enough, that he had failed his son.

Edmure was pale of complexion, and quite clammy, reminding him of how Lysa had been all too recently, and thus how Edmure's mother had looked on her own deathbed.

_Seven preserve him! I can't lose him, not now… little boys do not die of colds. Let him live… please let him live!_

In the room was the Greyjoy girl—the instigator of all these accidents, he now thought on it. She seemed to be urging Edmure that he wasn't so sick and that he should get up so she could beat him again. Hoster was about to make his presence known when he heard his son reply to the squid.

"I'm better… now," answered his son with a cough. There was something odd about the scene before him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something that did not make sense. More than anything else that now kept Hoster back for a moment as he watched his ten nameday old son interact with the seven nameday Ironborn girl.

"You don't sound it," replied the squid girl.

"No… with a bow," retorted Edmure.

"Well, then get up and prove it!" insisted the girl with a shove.

Hoster was about to speak his mind when his son rolled his eyes and rejoined with a few coughs, "I'll remember this when… I'm better! I'll annoy you… in your sick bed!"

"You'll never see me in a sick bed. Being in a bed all day is what makes people sick," countered the squid girl.

Edmure groaned and rolled onto his side away from facing the Greyjoy girl, crossing his arms and closing his eyes as he did so.

In response the girl climbed onto the bed to be sure he heard her, saying just audibly, "Find me when you're truly ready to start getting better. I'll be waiting to beat you again!" And with that the girl bounced off the bead and was about to go running out of the room when she caught sight of Hoster. She froze in an instant, her easy charm and bountiful good mood immediately icing over with a frosty outer layer obscuring her true emotions below.

"My son needs his rest," was all he could manage to croak, in a manner quite reprimanding.

Asha Greyjoy slowly nodded her head, her eyes transfixed with his own, and then without a word she scurried out of the room faster than a rat off of a sinking ship. Hoster gave her a discerning look as she exited the room. When she had left, he then crossed to his son's bed and pulled a chair next to it by his half-drowsy son, who breathed in slow disjointed shallow little breaths. He was so fragile, Hoster feared to touch his son—less he inadvertently kill him.

"How are you my son?" asked Hoster.

"Father?" asked Edmure groggily.

"Aye, it's me," answered Hoster.

His son yawned, clearly half in a daze, then turned over and reached out to hug him. Hoster immediately felt awkward—his girls had always been clingy—Lysa especially—but Edmure? Never.

_Things must truly be bad… too bad Minisa isn't here to soothe him. How can a father nurse his son? Nursing is the primary occupation of a woman. I can be here for him… but nurse him? No… _

Edmures wheezing breaths becoming more labored as he continued to reach as Hoster deliberated within his own mind. Recognizing that his son was not simply going to give up, Hoster moved to sit on the edge of the bed in order to give his son what he wanted, even if he felt awkward doing it. But as he did so, the child did not seem to care.

"You wanted to see me?" asked Hoster.

"I wanted you…" answered Edmure

"Was the squid annoying you?" queried Hoster with some concern.

"She always does…" conceded his son tiredly.

"Mayhaps I should send the squid away if all she does is bother you," mumbled Hoster gruffly.

"No!" insisted his son adamantly, his little fists balling up as he said it.

"No?" asked Hoster with bewilderment.

"No," assured Edmure with a slow and tired nod.

Soon Edmure had fallen back to sleep in his arms, his body becoming limp and pliable as his wheezy little breaths were the only sign of life within him.


End file.
